


Where day and night meet

by skybone



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Female Friendship, Friendship, In Hushed Whispers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 10:00:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3687999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skybone/pseuds/skybone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dreams are deadly but straightforward, as are the days. The dreams are unbearable, but she knows they are not real. They are the image of things that are not, but could have been; they are the reflection of her fears.</p><p>It is where day and night meet that confuses her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where day and night meet

**Author's Note:**

> The aftermath of In Hushed Whispers. As always, I own none of the characters, I'm just taking them out to play.

It is the nights that are hard, not the days. The days are full and overflowing, rigid with requirements and procedure. First there is the immediate problem of dealing with an angry Fereldan ruler full of outrage and offence. Then there is the trek to return to Haven, mages entrained in their wake, hopeful and resentful in equal parts. Grand Enchanter Fiona is a constant drain, guilty for her part in what had happened, angry that her people's choices had yet again been harnessed without the freedom to choose their own direction, and consequently insistent in her requirements for the Herald's attention to the mages' needs. Trev goes through it all in a kind of numbed daze that does not seem to interfere with her ability to handle her duties efficiently. Someone even compliments her on the clarity and competence in her actions, and she responds with a humour that seems to belong to someone else.

The days are as acrid as old sweat on a gambeson, but they are manageable.

Cassandra is the first to ask what happened in that future world, as soon as they have time and space away from the Fereldans and the mages, and she must answer, because it is a meeting on policy and tactics and there are possibly clues in what she knows, possibly knowledge that will help them understand and work against Corypheus's nature and intentions. She must speak of Celene's murder and Corypheus’s rise, and the devastation of their world, and she does so, calmly and concisely.

Varric is the one who asks if _they_ were in this future, and the others look at her expectantly. She has dreaded the question. She does not know how to answer it, but she knows she must answer. “Yes,” she says eventually, “you were there. You and Cassandra and Leliana were prisoners. We freed you and you fought with us. In the end, you died to gain us the time for Dorian to set the spell to bring us back.”

There is a moment of uncertain silence after that. Then Varric starts to ask more, and she cuts him off. “No. I will not speak more about this. I have said everything that you need to know.” She hears echoes of Leliana's words to Dorian: _Nothing happened that you want to hear_. Her eyes meet his, and she sees the slightest nod. Cassandra is watching her, a frown on her face; she stares back, face set, a challenge the Seeker does not take up.

The days of travel pass. At odd times she surprises bleakness in Dorian's eyes, beneath his banter, but he does not seek her out to speak to her. She does not know if what he saw in that future that no longer exists disturbs him in the same ways that she is disturbed; it seems unlikely. He has known Cassandra, Varric and Leliana for only days, after all. She thinks his care, his grief, is for Alexius, the man who was a father and brother to him in so many ways, and who travels with them now as a prisoner. But she would not have expected to be so disturbed herself, so she has no faith in her judgement of him.

The days pass, somehow, and the nights.

At night she falls like a toppling pillar into the Fade, and the dreams come, sharp and insistent, a sour smell of red fire and the sweetness of rotting flesh. She sees Fiona, racked upright in red lyrium. She sees the corruption beneath Varric and Cassandra's skin, the deadly light in their eyes. She sees the deaths-head that Leliana has become. She sees Varric's wry grin, Cassandra's half-smile, at the end, as they turn away to pass the doors. She sees Varric's body cast aside by the demon, shattered and loose-limbed, all the coiled, compact power and teasing, needling banter lost forever. She hears Leliana's voice, praying, as she kills, and kills, and kills, and sees the demon reach to rip her asunder. She topples into the horror of it, the slaughter of friends and the death of a world, and she can do nothing.

She does not see Cassandra die, but she knows that the demons would never have passed the door if she was alive.

She prays that this is so.

She tries, but she cannot entirely hide her dreams from Cassandra, with whom she shares a tent. She knows that sometimes she makes sounds, because once or twice the Seeker has roused enough to shake her and tell her that she is dreaming.

The dreams are raw and wrenching, and after they startle her awake she does not dare allow herself to fall back into sleep, knowing what will happen if she does. In dreams she watches Varric die, again and again. She watches Leliana die. She never sees Cassandra die, and in some indefinable way that is almost worse. By the time they reach Haven she is groggy with exhaustion, but she maintains a surface layer of competent efficiency that almost frightens her.

The dreams are deadly but straightforward, as are the days. The dreams are unbearable, but she knows they are not real. They are the image of the things that are not, but could have been; they are the reflection of her fears.

It is where day and night meet that confuses her.

The days are what is; the nights are what was, but now is not. She does not know how to understand this. At night she watches her friends die, and they are dead, and it is real. In the day they stand beside her, alive, and it is real. At night the Seeker could still be alive, and in torment; she did not see her die. But she is here, unharmed. There is no need to grieve for those who yet live, and are whole and well.

And yet she does.

In that world, in that time, Leliana had said in bitter anger to Dorian, “This is all pretend to you—some future you hope will never exist. I suffered. The whole world suffered. It was real.” She has begun to understand what the spymaster meant, and is paralyzed by that understanding, caught between night and day.

In that future, that world, her friends gave their lives for her, and she was helpless to prevent their deaths. In this world, in this time, she has no conviction that she will be able to do any better. She knows now in a very personal way exactly how much rides on her shoulders, and what the consequences of failure may be. Too many people depend on her, and she cannot protect them all. She is not sure that she can protect any of them. She would give her life trying to do so, but she no longer believes that this is enough. She has lost a faith in herself that she did not even know she had.

She does not know what to do with this.

*          *          *

She feels odd when they reach Haven; it is as it has always been, and everyone who should be there is there, and that seems wrong. But there are meetings to hold, and reports to make, and a great deal of work. She must go through it all again with the advisors, and it is no easier. She hopes that she will be able to sleep without dreaming, but she learns on the first night that nothing has changed. Her dreams are violent and grim, and after the second time she wakes she gives up, and goes to wait for sunrise on the battlements, avoiding the places where the sentries are stationed. A little after dawn, while the light is still dim, she comes down from the heights and passes Cassandra in her training yard; the Seeker gives her a startled look.

There are more meetings, there is more planning. She feels that she cannot think, but some part of her responds when it should, as it should. Most of the time, at least; but her grip is slipping. Josephine comments on a moment of distraction, Cullen looks perplexed, Leliana raises an eyebrow, and Cassandra frowns. She wonders if her tiredness shows on her face. She wonders if her face shows anything.

On the second night at home there is agitation among her companions for an evening of drinking in the tavern. Those who went to Redcliffe Castle want to celebrate their victory. Those who did not accompany them want to know if the tales they are hearing are true. And there _has_ been a tactical victory, it is not unreasonable to celebrate. It seems churlish not to do so.

She feels tired and confused and unable to think about her confusion all at the same time. She feels as if she has been dropped into a river of bitter sorrow, and cannot find the shore. She thinks that a night drinking might be a good thing; it is not as if she wants to spend time alone thinking. Perhaps if she drinks enough she will forget. Perhaps she will sleep without dreaming.

*          *          *

She does not normally drink much on tavern nights, but this evening is different. With the exception of Cassandra, who rarely consumes more than two tankards of ale, the others are drinking a great deal as well, an explosion of relief, so she does not think anyone notices. She drinks at a slow but steady pace. She converses, she makes toasts and responds to them, she laughs. People come and talk to her where she sits and then go away again, finding others to laugh with; it is a constant circulation of faces. Some icy part of herself watches each one and wonders if they will be the next to die.

The drink is not helping.

They are singing rollicking bawdy songs now. She can suddenly take no more. She tosses back the last of the ale in her tankard, salutes them all with a grin, and turns to go, followed by cheers and laughter.

Once outside, the blast of cold wind that hits her scrapes the cheerful mask from her face. The cold should have sobered her, but somehow it has only made her feel less steady. She finds a bench around the corner and half falls onto it. She stares up at the Breach and wonders how long it will be before the ale renders her numb. She hopes it happens soon.

She has been there long enough for a dusting of snow to settle on her shoulders and hair when Cassandra comes around the corner and finds her, stopping abruptly, clearly startled. “Herald,” she says, a note of alarm in her voice, “are you all right?”

“Of course,” says Trev, finding a smile and applying it. “Jus’… thinking.” Her lips are cold and it is hard to move her mouth.

“You cannot sit here,” says the Seeker firmly. “You will freeze, the wind is bitter tonight.” She reaches out and takes Trev’s arm, pulling her to her feet.

Trev’s feet are numb and clumsy, her mind hazed with drink, and she stumbles. Cassandra catches and steadies her. “I will walk you to your quarters.” The Seeker is frowning; doubtless she disapproves of such careless disregard for safety. And drunken Heralds.

“Proper Heralds never get drunk,” Trev thinks. “A Seeker would never get drunk. Especially Seekers with such a highly developed sense of propriety.”

“Even Seekers have been known to need assistance to their quarters on occasion,” says Cassandra drily, and she realizes to her horror that she has spoken aloud. She stops dead, her face flaming.

“Sorry. ‘S rude of me.”

“It does not matter,” says Cassandra, matter-of-factly. “I am not offended.” She keeps a steadying hand on Trev's arm, drawing her forward again. The Herald's cabin seems a terribly long way away. Trev wants to lie down and sleep, until she remembers why she does not want to lie down and sleep and is seized by a sudden upwelling of despair. She shuts off her mind and lets the Seeker guide her, following the pressure of Cassandra’s hand.

Tries to shut off her mind.

She slides on ice on the cobbles and goes down, painfully hard, on one knee; she would have gone flat if Cassandra had not been there. She will have a bad bruise in the morning. The Seeker picks her up and holds her steady. Trev can see the Breach over her shoulder, pulsing.

“D'you ev'r wonder if we can win against Coryph's?” she asks.

“I _know_ that we can win,” says Cassandra, absolute conviction in her voice. She is tall and resolute. She has no doubts, no confusion. Her shoulders could carry mountains. She is a hero.

She will die a hero.

“I envy your cert'nty,” says Trev faintly. “I don't... know that.”

The Seeker looks at her, frowning. “If we are true to our aims, anything is possible. Everything is possible. I have faith in our cause, and I have faith in you.”

After a moment, Trev somehow says clearly, “I do not have… that faith.”

“I believe that you can do what you set out to do,” says Cassandra. “This is what we all believe. It is why you are Herald.” She smiles a little, unexpectedly. “And if it turns out I am wrong, I am not afraid to go to the Maker.”

The image of Cassandra’s crooked half smile, the hope in her eyes as she turned away to her death, rises again before Trev in a red surging tide, and a sudden crushing wave of grief crashes over her. She feels her face change, and she shuts her eyes. “I know,” she whispers, and carefully thinks of nothing, nothing at all.

She can feel Cassandra’s hands, still gripping her upper arms. It is ridiculous, it is impossible—she is in a leather jacket and the Seeker’s hands are gloved—but she seems to feel their warmth. It is reassuring; she is here, she is now.

When she can open her eyes safely, it is to find the Seeker watching her. Her expression is inscrutable but not ungentle. Eventually Cassandra says, slowly, “What you lived through was real. But that future has been changed. You must let it go.” Her eyes are hazel in colour and clear as spring rain.

They have somehow come to the door of Trev’s cabin. Cassandra is opening it, guiding her through—Trev is less steady than before, if that is possible—and to the bed. Trev falls back, staring at the ceiling. Cassandra’s hands tug off her boots, and then pull a blanket over her. Trev tries to sit up, but the Seeker puts a restraining hand on her shoulder. “You must rest.”

“I—don't like my dreams,” says Trev bleakly.

Cassandra is silent for a moment, and then says, “I will stay a little while, in case you dream. Try to sleep.”

It takes her a little time to fall asleep, despite the ale and the exhaustion, but when she does it is an iron gate crashing down, and then she is in the Fade again, and it goes on and on and on. She wakes in darkness, gasping. She feels a hand take hers, and a voice that is harsh and gentle at the same time says, “I am with you.”

There is a shadow beside her; she realizes that the Seeker is has pulled a chair next to her bed. Cassandra's hand is warm and solid, hard with the callouses of a swordfighter, and very real. Eventually Trev falls asleep again, holding it tightly.

She does not fall into the Fade this time. She slides into darkness, rises to the surface, dips again. There is a voice in the darkness, deep and calm, a rhythm of words. At some point she comes enough awake to understand that Cassandra is reciting the Chant of Light.

Trev lost her faith years ago; she respects those who do believe, but she cannot understand the Maker and Andraste as anything but stories, beautiful and inspiring stories that are useful as guides, but no more. But the words themselves have always been a part of her life. The words she hears now are familiar, restful, and strangely comforting. She drifts into sleep again, the rhythms of Cassandra's voice advancing and receding like waves on a beach.

She sleeps, and she does not dream.

*          *          *

In the morning she wakes still tired, but more rested than she has felt in days. Her head feels full of dragonclaws, her mouth feels full of stable sweepings, her knee throbs, but the relief of having a few hours of dreamless sleep is so strong that she almost—almost—doesn't care.

On the table by the bed there is a potion waiting, and a note: “ Adan swears that this will cure any hangover. I have not found that it produces quite the miracles he claims, but it does help.”

She smiles wryly, and thinks that perhaps she will survive. It is a beginning.

*          *          *

> _Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,_
> 
> _I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm._
> 
> _I shall endure._
> 
> —Trials 1:10

**Author's Note:**

> The first time I played the game I went with the Templars. The second time, I went with the mages and played In Hushed Whispers. 
> 
> And… whoa.
> 
> I can’t believe that the Inquisitor would be unmarked by what they saw in that future, able to shrug it off with an quick, “Thanks for saving me, Leliana,” and nothing else. (An Inquisitor that could shrug it off so easily would be someone I wouldn’t want to know.)
> 
> I think that a sensitive person would have a hard time reconciling their lived experience with its negation, and that it would take some time to work through.
> 
> Although I make use of my Trev, and my headcanon says that she will indeed fall for Cassandra (and, eventually, vice versa), not including romantic content here is a deliberate choice—it would be a distraction from what I really wanted to show. This is a story simply about caring, and the beginnings of friendship. 
> 
> (Because it's not romance, I didn't tag this as C/Inquisitor, but then again, it's very much about their relationship. I was uncertain about customary practice on AO3. Should I tag it as a relationship or not?)
> 
> UPDATE: a drawing for this story is now on my Tumblr: http://skyboneharper.tumblr.com/image/115636558659


End file.
